


The impression(ist) I get....

by darter_blue



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Beefy Bucky Barnes, Bucky With The Good Hair, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, SHIELD Agent Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 20:39:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darter_blue/pseuds/darter_blue
Summary: Bucky Barnes meets the man of his dreams at an exhibition for Japanese inspired Impressionism. Only he's right in the midst of a top level SHIELD mission and sacrifices (cute, blond, future husband type sacrifices) must be made.Steve has finally landed his work in a prominent gallery, but he's too distracted by the gorgeous slice of beefcake (who seems interested but keeps running away) to appreciate the achievement.Don't worry though, Natasha (on behalf of the greater good) is standing by to help them get their shit together.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 43
Kudos: 586





	The impression(ist) I get....

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was born of an accidental prompt between myself and [Kalee60](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalee60)
> 
> See: autocorrect fake dating to **sake** dating and some tangential tomfoolery and we had a mini writing challenge on our hands.
> 
> Check out [Saké It To Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288206) for the cutest little sake flavoured speed dating shrunkyclunks! You wont be sorry xxx

# Bucky

Bucky didn't get much of a chance to appreciate art anymore. At least not in the languid, indulgent way that people who routinely visited galleries seemed able to appreciate it. So this was a nice change. His surveillance normally took place from uncomfortable roof top perches, mildewed, abandoned apartments or, slightly more exciting - translation: infinitely more dangerous - mosquito infested swamp compounds full of morally bankrupt muscle for hire and Crime Lord lackies (a non-routine undercover operation that was never to be discussed. Thank you).

The gallery job was a perk of the new, improved position Bucky had lately taken within SHIELD (don’t ask, Bucky won’t explain what that acronym stands for). And if the return on working for a bunch of paranoid suits with superiority complexes was time to scope out some of these fine paintings, then he could live with that. Honestly, in Bucky’s business, not all of what he’d been forced to do was so easy to live with. 

Scene Contempo gallery was owned by Vanessa Fisk, and intelligence gathered gave the impression that her husband, Wilson, a particularly gruesome man suspected to be currently collaborating with Hydra (bad, bad guys), would be in attendance for the opening night of their new exhibition. 

Bucky looked around him with fascination. He didn't remember having ever seen painting like this before. Or, it was all types of art really, but he wasn’t much for the sculptures or more abstract pieces. The brochure he’d been handed at the entrance explained it as Japanese inspired Impressionism, and the food and drink being offered around by the wait staff followed the theme. Examining and contemplating the diverse iterations of colour and shape and what they might mean to all of the individual artists was a very different exercise for Bucky’s usually stressed brain than exit strategies and lining up kill shots. The change was welcome.

One of the paintings in particular had caught his eye, blush pink cherry blossoms framed the silhouette of a dancer, arms spread wide under a deluge of blood red rain, bleeding from the flowers. Bucky was struck by his impression of it being both intensely morbid and astonishingly joyful. It felt like a celebration of violence, which, unusual but not unheard of. But what struck Bucky most was the suggestion that the celebration of it needn't be overtly aggressive. It offered a level of acceptance that Bucky didn't often allow himself. 

It was, unlike most of the art on display, actually for sale.

‘Like that one do you, Barnes?’ Nat’s smokey voice filled his head, as ever, comforting and grounding through the communication device nestled in his left ear. 

His response was a barely perceptible nod to the camera in the corner of the room. It hadn’t been necessary to set up any of their own video equipment for this operation, they simply jumped into the feed from the gallery’s own security system and Nat could watch his progress from the privacy of the ugly, closed up and out of commission pirozhki food truck one hundred meters down the street. 

‘Of course he’s zeroed in on the creepiest piece in the exhibition,’ Clint added, gracefully edging around the guests with his tray of Japanese cocktails. Bucky grabbed one as Clint passed and let the crisp tartness of the drink sit a little on his tongue, sharp and invigorating. 

A surprised, ‘Oh,’ escaped him at the taste, ‘these are actually really good.’

Clint’s ‘I know right?’ fed through the comm at the same time as a soft, ‘surprised me too,’ was spoken from over his right shoulder. 

‘Barton, you’re meant to be serving them, quit drinking them.’ Nat hissed, Bucky ignored them both to turn to the source of the voice, attempting to appear personable (as instructed in the briefing). He was not prepared to there find the delicately beautiful man it belonged to. 

‘Hi,’ Bucky breathed, not much above a whisper. The man smiled.

‘Hey.’

And then Bucky promptly forgot how to speak. 

‘This is the part where you use your words, Barnes’ Nat supplied helpfully from the truck. Bucky tried, but the man was just sort of… stunning. 

‘What happened,’ Clint piped in, ‘why’s he frozen?’

‘He found a cute boy.’

The man’s smile grew into something sanguine as Bucky stood mute.

‘Yeah,’ Bucky finally managed, continuing to ignore his colleagues, ‘I, ah.. I’ve never had Japanese cocktails before.’

‘Lame,’ Nat trolled.

‘I visited a few years ago,’ the man said, ‘and fell in love with just about everything I tried, yuzu juice was one of my favourites.’

‘It’s good.’ Bucky struggled to be eloquent, ‘sharp.’ Well, at least monosyllabic was better than silent.

‘I wasn’t expecting the food to be so authentic, to be honest.’ 

‘Is that why you’re a fan?’ Bucky asked, and at the confused expression in response clarified, ‘of this style, Japonism?’ and waved his hand at the art around them. ’Because of your time there?’

‘Actually, I was a fan first,’ he answered, shrugging his shoulders, ‘it’s why I went.’

Bucky nodded and closed the distance between them a little. ‘This is my first exhibit like this.’ Bucky didn’t disclose that it was really his first art exhibition since middle school. (He went to a museum once, in his early twenties, but that was to case the place. For an undercover thing. He didn’t count it). Nat blew a raspberry at him through the comm, no doubt indicating he was fucking this up somehow and he resolved to be extra hard on her when they hit the mats tomorrow at practise. 

‘What do you think of it so far?’ asked the man, a touch nervously, 'the exhibition, that is.'

Bucky wanted to tell him how much he liked the art, but that there was nothing there as interesting as the man himself. In his dark tan chinos with the legs cuffed, and a navy blazer over a crisp white button down, he looked as if he'd stepped straight off the catwalk - right down to his willowy frame, creamy complexion and soft blond mop of hair falling artfully over the bridge of his tortoiseshell glasses. He wanted to lean too far into his space to be misconstrued. Bucky possessed a roguish smile-wink combination that just about guaranteed swooning (if he practiced that move in the bathroom mirror, it was for work, okay, don’t judge) and he would have been willing to use his full arsenal for a chance to get to know this man better.

He wasn’t free to do any of it though. He needed to keep a low profile, mingle without being memorable. Pass through the gallery as a ghost.

‘I like it,’ said Bucky instead, regrettably forgettable. 

Still, the man smiled bashfully with a pleased, ‘yeah?’ in response that was gorgeously wholesome.

‘Some of it is really beautiful,’ admitted Bucky, charmed by how delighted that seemed to make the man.

‘Anything in particular caught your fancy?’ he asked Bucky, taking a step further into Bucky’s space, his warmth creeping into Bucky through the contact of their brushing sleeves. Bright blue eyes shone up at him from behind those glasses and Bucky was so gone.

‘Barnes, I’ve got eyes on Fisk,’ Clint’s voice was low and serious in Bucky’s ear. ‘You need to get to the south end of the gallery.’

Bucky smiled ruefully at the man, raising a finger in place of giving an answer, pulling his cell from his pocket and feigning a phone call. 

‘I’m sorry, I need to take this.’

‘Oh, sure,’ said the man, his expression wavering, disappointment palpable. Bucky had to turn away. He made his way toward the mark and closed himself off to the bitter knowledge that he would probably never see the man again. 

He looked back though, and the man was watching him. He waved and Bucky waved back but that was all he could permit himself. It seemed even as a level six agent, the big dollar operations and fancy locations could be painful. Not for the first time, Bucky wondered if maybe he was in the wrong business.

(Shake it off, Bucky, do the job).

‘How’s it look, Romanoff?’ Bucky asked Nat, speaking into his silenced cell.

‘Wilson and Vanessa are in a crowd of eight,’ Nat relayed, ‘now’s a good time to get close enough without being obvious.’ 

Bucky followed directions and got himself into position. He was dressed casually enough to draw little attention, his grey cashmere sweater and dark blue dress pants hid some of his muscled bulk, a slight hunch and hands in pockets hiding more. He’d swept up his shoulder length wavy brown hair, choosing the appearance of innocence in a closely shaven jaw and exposed face over the shadowed comfort of keeping hidden behind it loose around his shoulders. The ear piece was so tiny, its presence did not factor into his disguise. 

The ultimate accessory, though, was his wristwatch. It held a small amount of nanite congested, colourless, odorless gas that should, if deployed close enough to Fisk, attach to his skin and allow the nanites to burrow into the lower epidermal layer and feedback audio to SHIELD for a minimum of four weeks. 

Bucky’s only job was to deploy the gas by Wilson Fisk, close enough that at the very least, one of the nanites could connect and get them unlimited audio access to his life for a month. Bucky did not envy the poor schmucks who had to weed through all the people those nanites might attach to, just to find the mark.

He edged casually towards the group including both Fisks (Mr and Mrs) with his eyes on the painting behind them. It wasn’t nearly as captivating as the Bleeding Cherry Blossoms (nothing else at the exhibit was) but it had a certain elegance that pleased the eye. Bucky pocketed his cell and fiddled with the cuffs of his sleaves as he passed, deploying the gas as he reached the closest point to Fisk, no discernable hitch in his step. He continued on to another wall to view the next piece and grabbed a sashimi bite as Clint breezed by with a wink.

‘We have positive attachment to six unique persons,’ Nat advised, ‘get the fuck out, Barnes, the tech’s can deal with the rest.’

Bucky, always a good soldier, followed orders and headed for the door with enough lazy ease to appear studying a few final pieces on his way. 

Unfortunately (or fortunately… Bucky was torn) his pace was slow enough for the beautiful man from earlier to intercept his exit. 

‘Leaving already?’ he asked, face slightly flushed. 

Bucky allowed his real disappointment to show in his expression when he answered, ‘something came up.’

‘Oh, well...it was nice to meet you,’ he said with a last ditch effort at hope, ‘I’m Steve, by the way.’

‘It was nice to meet you too, Steve,’ replied Bucky, ignoring the hand that Steve was about to offer before turning to the door and not looking back.

He wished he could have at least given his name in return.

‘Wel, that was brutal,’ Nat supplied. Bucky deflated as he strode to double back around the streets and make his way to the truck.

‘Aw, the poor guy looks devastated,’ said Clint, still inside, needing to do one last lap of the event before joining them.

‘Clint, can you steal me another one of those cocktails on your way out?’ asked Bucky with a giant sigh. The operation looked to be a success, but the night had kinda sucked.

‘Sure buddy, I’ll pilfer a couple of these bottles and we can mix them in the truck.’

At least he had friends he could rely on. 

*****

Bucky looked through the guest list and couldn't find a Steve (or Steven, or any number of other possible iterations) that matched his Steve's description. 

He may have also looked through a lot of security footage from the night (And surrounding days) but Steve hadn't spent much time there. He'd spoken to a few guests but had no memorable interactions. 

(It never occurred to Bucky to check the artist list)

***** 

SHIELD’s tech team confirmed the attachment of the nanites to Fisk. 

They got enough intel from the first week alone to take out two HYDRA bases.

Bucky didn’t bother to celebrate. 

*****

Bucky was home when he received a cryptic text from Nat a few weeks later:

**Received**: you're welcome

Which didn't bode well, in Bucky’s experience.

And was reinforced a minute later when his buzzer sounded.

'Hello?' Bucky croaked into the intercom, staring at the video feed which showed nothing but a huge box clasped in disembodied hands. 

'Hi, delivery for Barnes?' A disembodied voice replied. 

Two new texts arrived as it did:

**Received**: I think the living room

**Received**: Clint says he'll help paint a feature wall. The background needs to pop, apparently

**Sent**: is this delivery legit

**Sent:** if I let this guy up am I gonna get murdered and hidden in my own freezer in pieces

**Received**: Bucky, your freezer isn't big enough

'Um, this is really heavy actually…' 

**Received**: also, you can kill a man with your pinky finger, I doubt some random delivery guy is gonna get the jump on you

'Sir?' Random delivery guy asked (and maybe started to question his life choices), 'this is James. B. Barnes right?'

**Received**: geez, have a heart Barnes. He's a little guy with a big package

'Yeah, yes sorry. This is James Barnes. Come on up. '

Bucky buzzed the guy up as he texted Nat back:

**Sent**: wtf have you sent me…

Bucky opened the door ready for the poor guy to arrive. His third floor apartment at least had a service elevator and he watched the package arrive, the courier hidden behind it. 

'Do you need a hand?' Bucky asked. It really did look awkward. 

'Ah, no, it's really fragile. I'd rather get it inside to where it's going, just for my own peace of mind.' 

Hearing the guy's voice in person rather than over the crackle of the intercom was familiar, but Bucky couldn't place it.

'Okay, sure. Straight through here I guess.'

Once through the front door, the guy set his package down as instructed and Bucky's mouth gaped as he recognised the familiar face attached to the familiar voice. Steve. Art gallery Steve. 

And Steve must have recognised him right back.

'Hey!' Though he didn't seem sure whether to be confused or ecstatic. 

'Hi.'

Nat and her weird super powers had struck again. 

'I didn't realise-'

'What are you-'

They both started at the same time.

Bucky indicated for Steve to go first. Anxious to know what his side of the story was.

'Sorry, I just meant… I didn't realise _ you _ had bought this,' Steve explained. Bucky was hesitant to agree, being he didn't yet know exactly what he had purchased. 

From the shape of the package, it was a painting.

Knowing Natasha Romanoff as he did, it was likely the Bleeding Cherry Blossoms. 

But how Steve had come to be the courier was a head scratcher. 

'It was a gift.' Bucky went with the least awkward explanation. 'I may have mentioned how much I liked it to a good friend of mine.'

Steve began unpacking what was indeed the beautiful and haunting piece he had fallen in love with. Bucky clocked Steve glancing around at the veritable lack of apartment decor as he carefully removed the packaging and felt embarrassed. He didn't spend that much time at home and hadn't had a chance to make his mark yet. He wondered if Steve would be disappointed to know the artwork would be hung in such a sad space.

'Were going to paint a feature wall for the back drop,'

Bucky gestured to living room trying to save face. 'Try to do it justice.'

'As long as you put it where _ you _ want it,' Steve assured him, 'it will be exactly where it's meant to go.'

'It was my favourite. On the night… I mean,' Bucky fumbled 'I don't know that much about art but… something about it just made me feel,' he struggled to explain, '...understood'.

'Thank you,' said Steve, blushing inexplicably, 'I was painting this one at an... interesting time in my life, let's say.'

Oh. Steve _ painted _ it. It was _ Steve's _ painting. Bucky was dead. RIP Bucky.

He rallied to appear normal while he let that bombshell sink in. 'You always home deliver your own paintings, Steve?' 

Steve watched him with a sort of fondness that Bucky could get used to. 'Well, the lady that purchased it may have specifically requested the _ artist _ deliver it.' 

Bucky maybe owed Nat a favour. Maybe owed her more than one. 

'Yes, she can be very… persuasive.'

He needed to find a way to keep the beautiful talented artist in his living room (and maybe just _ keep him _).

Bucky always did love a mission.

# STEVE

Steve was staving off the sense of panic that being called into his professor's office had always instilled in him. The panic was ridiculous, not only because Steve had never actually been called into his professor’s office for more than a slap on the wrist (there was that one protest rally he had made graphic posters for - one of which remained on his bedroom wall to this day), but mostly because Steve had finished his masters five years ago and this was strictly a catch up with his favourite university academic. 

'Steve!' Professor Erskine exclaimed delightedly, hopping up from his desk to usher Steve inside and plant him into the cracked leather chair opposite his. 

'Professor, good to see you,' Steve said, 'nice to see you recovered from that terrible bout of flu you must have been suffering last time I saw you.'

'Steve, as I know you're well aware I was tragically hung over at the time, I won't dignify that with a response.' Prof Erskine sniffed and shuffled into his seat. 

Steve laughed and held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, 'hey it wasn't my idea to finish off that bottle of peach schnapps.'

Erskine chuckled before stilling and setting a serious expression, 'Ah, but this is not a social call mister Rogers,' is nevertheless said with a smile. Steve raised one eyebrow with interest (and maybe a little panic).

'Am I in trouble?' He asked, mostly in jest. 

'Actually the opposite, I have an opportunity for you.'

'For me?'

'Indeed. Scene Contempo has an exhibit in Japonism opening tonight-'

'-Scene Contempo, the Manhattan gallery?'

'The very one, and they need a last minute replacement piece for a painting that's stuck in customs.' Erskine eyed Steve expectantly.

'A replacement piece,' Steve clarified, trying not to get ahead of himself, 'for a Japonism exhibit.'

Erskine's smile grew as he watched Steve's comprehension dawn.

'Just so, and as I'm something of an expert on Japanese influence in European art, I was asked to recommend something of an appropriate calibre.'

'And you,' Steve started, sitting on his hands to keep them from flailing erratically, 'you have a piece in mind?' 

'I was thinking your Bleeding Cherry Blossoms would be more than acceptable.'

'Holy Shit!'

'Just so.' Erskine's smile took over his entire face. 'So up, up, young man, it's opening night tonight and you need to be there with the painting in three hours.'

Three Hours. Steve had just enough time to change into his most respectable outfit and high-tail it to Peggy's gallery in Brooklyn to sort it all out (Throwing Erskine a hasty salute as he left).

Trawling (in reality, very delicately transporting) his painting from the happy home in it's little Brooklyn gallery to Vanessa Fisk's lavish and ostentatious space in Manhattan was as thrilling as it was wistful. Even knowing it would only be there for one day (opening night mind you, if it was going to be any day, that one was for sure the one to take) his heart was banging around like crazy in his little chest. 

Steve arrived with minutes to spare and the work was hung among three other modern pieces in the exhibit. He spoke briefly to Vanessa Fisk as she complimented his painting and welcomed him to the exhibition, then he was left to his own devices as guests started to arrive and her attention was directed elsewhere.

The night didn't bring as much fanfare as he was expecting. Instead he experienced a creepily intense conversation with Vanessa’s security detail, two different and yet similarly unmemorable guys asking for his number, one largely sarcastic woman telling him his painting didn’t deserve to be there because it wasn't impressionism (Steve wasn’t sure she actually knew what Impressionism _ was _ except to assume that it only included the old and famous) and the same fit blond waiter with the good cocktails who continued to circle back to him like he could see how much Steve needed the booze.

Steve had to talk himself down from having one every time the guy passed him with a tray (Steve was a relatively small guy, and there was some quality sake in the cocktails) and gorged on the sushi instead (but didn't stash any in his pockets, he was trying to make a good impression)

And the night would have remained a totally anticlimactic let down if Steve hadn’t followed hot and blonde with the drink tray to steal his fourth sake and yuzu concoction only to find instead the most stunning slice of beefcake ever to grace his presence. 

The man stood staring at Steve’s piece as if actually studying it. In dress pants that highlighted a hard earned and perfectly round ass and a sweater that looked so soft Steve wanted to reach out and stroke it (and the lovely arms that it was no doubt hiding). But it was the shoulders, yes, the shoulders that were doing Steve in. No, the thighs, oh god, those thighs. Actually, was it the hair? Half tied back in a bun with careless flighty tendrils framing a neck that was delicately at odds with the rest of his musculature. It was all of it, and it was all fucking _ hot _.

The man took a drink from the passing tray and Steve heard him remark on its taste with pleasant surprise. He stepped up without conscious thought.

‘Surprised me too.’ And was that actually what he had decided to open with? God, when did he get so pretentious? 

But it seemed to work. Enough that the man turned around to engage, and if Steve had thought it was an exceptional view from behind, it was nothing compared to the beauty of his face. Chiseled jaw, slight five oclock shadow, cheekbones he wanted to sink his teeth into and plush pink lips he could imagine around his- (rein it in Steve, jesus). Well. You get the idea. 

They talked about the art, they touched on travel and Steve tried (he really did) not to stare so thirstily at his mouth and actually listen to what he was saying. But just as it seemed Steve might actually be getting somewhere, the guy took a sudden and suspiciously silent phone call and disappeared into the noise of the exhibit. 

Fit blond waiter gave him a comisitory shrug from across the room to say ‘them’s the breaks’ and Steve felt himself slide into a funk of ‘why me?’ until he realised he was being defeatist and decided to go find the guy and get his damn number.

Except, upon finding said gorgeous beefcake and practically chasing him out the door, the guy fairly ran and Steve didn’t even get a damn _ name _, let alone his number.

****

Nobody bought his painting and it trundled back (under Steve’s careful guidance) to its little hole in brooklyn and the clutches of relative anonymity.

****

Two or so weeks later a dangerously attractive redhead (who must have been sewn into those pants, _ wow _) scoped out Steve’s painting while he looked on in astonishment from the reception desk.

‘This is for sale?’ she asked as he made his way over.

‘Yeah, that's what the sign says,’ Steve said and winced. Just because she had missed the price tag, didn’t mean he should be a dick.

‘Whose the artist?’ she barreled on, ignoring Steve’s rudeness (which was actually just nerves, god he was hopeless with people. What was Peggy even paying him for?), ‘Steve Rogers? I haven't heard of him.’

‘Ah, that’s me actually,’ he replied, sweating into his threadbare New York Mets henley, ‘I’m Steve Rogers.’

‘Of course,’ The woman cooed, and he’d be stone cold dead if looks could kill. Why did Steve feel like that whole conversation had been a test? 'Well, I have a friend who's a big fan.'

By the end of the day, Steve Rogers had successfully sold his favourite painting. 

For four thousand dollars.

(Only half of which he received, as Peggy took the rest on behalf of the gallery).

Steve would be paying his rent _ and _ eating three meals a day for the foreseeable future (which was about a month, a month was as far as he was willing to look).

Still, he went to bed feeling like something was missing and wishing he knew what it was.

****

The fact that deadly redhead had paid an extra two hundred dollars into Steve’s pocket for him to deliver the painting in person had seemed odd but charming at the time. 

Standing in front of the apartment building with a giant wrapped canvas and no chill to speak of had Steve retrospectively questioning his life choices. 

Until, that was, he made it to the third floor and James B Barnes, brand new owner of Steve’s Bleeding Cherry Blossoms, was none other than the gorgeous man from the gallery. 

Holy Mary Mother of God.

Steve waded through the confusion and surprise to recognise that gorgeous guy seemed similarly afflicted. A warmth spread through Steve’s chest as he realised that he must have been genuinely taken by the painting. 

'Well… I'm. Listen I'm sorry I had to bail so early the other night,' the guy apologised, 'it was kind of a crazy day at work.'

Which was glossing over the situation, but Steve wasn't about to botch his second chance by asking for details that probably weren't his business.

'Oh, no it's fine. I understand.' 

'And I'm James!' He near pounced on Steve to stop him from leaving. 'But my friends call me Bucky.'

'Nice to meet you properly, Bucky.' Steve fought and lost against the smile creeping in. 

'And I mean, I guess you know where I live, but, maybe I could give you my number?' He wanted to give Steve his number. Steve was getting his name _ and _ his number. 

Steve put all the flirt he owned into his voice. 'Your number huh?'

‘Or you could give me yours- I'm easy.’ Steve could have died, Bucky was so sweet! And nervous!

‘Oh, you are?’ he teased. And Bucky grimaced. 

‘I feel like im fucking this up,’ Bucky confessed, running a hand through his wave of silky, chestnut hair. 

‘You’re really not,' Steve rushed to correct, 'I mean, there’s very little you could do at this point that would turn me off, honestly cause I'm sorry but, have you seen you?' Which was no lie. Exhibits A through C, arms, thighs, hair (Steve wisely kept those facts to himself). Bucky blushed a lovely pink across his beautifully sharp cheekbones.

‘That is both a relief and a challenge' Bucky countered with a cheeky wink. And Steve could get on board.

‘Well, are you busy right now?’ 

‘What did you have in mind.' A lot. Steve had a lot in mind.

‘I have a few ideas.’

'Would you be up for,' Bucky started sheepishly, 'I mean this is probably inappropriate but-'

'Yes!' 

Bucky laughed, 'Shit Pal, you don't even know what it is yet.' 

'I'm literally up for anything.' Again, not a lie. 

'Well I was thinking, seeing as it's _ your _ masterpiece and I want to do it justice, maybe you could help me pick out a colour and we could paint the feature wall?'

Which was not what Steve was expecting, but, 'that sounds kind of perfect actually.'

Bucky looked pleased (it suited him). 'And maybe I could cook you dinner?' 

'Oh definitely,' Steve replied and could be forgiven for the gratuitous lip biting (it had Bucky blushing so pretty).

*****

Steve may have started the paint fight with every intention of getting Bucky out of his clothes. 

Bucky sans clothes? Did not disappoint.

*****

They may not have made it to dinner. 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out: [Saké It To Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288206)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Give me love in the comments (but only if you mean it - or you're trying to sell me something) xxx
> 
> hit me up at ** [darter-blue](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/darter-blue)** on tumblr


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